Finding Destiny
by Inconspicuous Acuity
Summary: Set right after the beginning of the Jedi Civil War, this story follows the paths of four tribute characters: a homeless little girl, a Mandalorian bounty huntress, a follower of Revan and a confused Jedi Padawan.
1. The Datapad

_**Authors Notes:** Originally, I had written a series of one-shots that I never planned to publish, but which featured mostly the same characters. After reading them, Brynn Dharielle suggested that I should merge them into one story and expressed an idea of how exactly that could come about. Inspired by her (and very grateful for it), I did just that and I've come up with this fic here._

_Like the summary says, the setting for this particular story belongs to the Jedi Civil War; more explicitly, just after Revan's fall to the dark side. The more specific details about that aspect will be included with the story._

_Also, Revan and the Exile will be mentioned, but not important characters in the story. I see this Revan as the one I'm using in my "Third Chance" story and this Exile the one I'll be using, in some distant future, once the KotOR 1 novelization is done and I'll be writing one for KotOR 2. But you don't need to know a thing about them, because this story will, by itself, offer all the necessary details for one to understand its plot._

_The four main characters are each a tribute to one KotOR NPC, but I'll let you people figure out the correspondences. ;)_

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**The Datapad**

The warehouse was empty, if one didn't count the layers of dust on the floor; it had been so since the owner had died. It was a good spot for one to meditate, with the thick durasteel walls to prevent any exterior sounds from entering, and desolate enough to make one feel as if it would hold their thoughts safe, faithfully fulfilling its natural role.

The young Padawan Zeph liked to come here and use the place's recluse silence to deepen his connection with the Force. His Master could look for him, perhaps even feel his presence in the area, but no Jedi would ever guess he was getting inside the warehouse through the ventilation system.

He didn't know what he hoped to achieve by coming here to meditate. Maybe he hoped certainty and balance, the true belief in the Code and Jedi Order would come to him as a revelation. But how could one focus and be serene? How to obtain stability in a galaxy so fundamentally dependent of conflict and change? For example, even this small element in the grand scheme of things, the warehouse; he knew that eventually it would be resold or assigned to someone who would put it to use again, and he would lose this only true refuge as well. It was a world – a life – that could shift from one extreme to the other overnight.

Any subject was as good as all the others to convey that very idea. Subjects like Revan, who was quite 'in vogue' at the time. One popular with the Republic, popular with the Jedi, popular even with the Mandalorian remnants, mentioned so often that the Padawan had grown to be fed up with the name. He tried not to hear when others spoke of Revan.

First, the Mandalorian Wars had come and the Republic itself hadn't done a thing for the economically and politically unimportant worlds chosen to be the first targets. The 'big guys' never really cared about anything, not until their own safety came to be threatened. And so, they had waited until they were sure the Mandalorians wouldn't stop there, at the edges of known space. Then, they had blamed the Jedi for waiting also, though they did not know the reasons behind the Order's lack of action.

Unlike many, who trusted in the Council blindly, without questions, the young Padawan was among those who thought they understood the real motivations at work, why the Masters had chosen not to aid the Republic. They were not afraid to jeopardize their own safety for that of others, like the Core Worlds and the military had been. That they did not interfere was only because they thought a piece of the puzzle had yet to reveal itself. They had not professed total inaction; only patience.

But many lacked that virtue. Revan had rebelled against the Council's mysterious passivity and had made use of her strong personality and ability to influence others. She had played on the doubts and unanswered questions left amidst the Jedi, and the Order had received quite the blow when all those Knights had left, tired of waiting because of reasons they did not understand. With Malak by her side, Revan had obtained victory after victory for the Republic and forced the Mandalorians into a last, desperate confrontation, set on a world they apparently dreaded. Proving herself to be a true genius and a leader greater than any other of the time, she had become the Republic's prized champion.

While she had left the known space behind, with the entire fleet she had led, to pursue what remained of the Mandalorians (or so it had been said), worlds all over the galaxy had rejoiced and celebrated. The Jedi Council and those who had stayed with them had been forgotten and shown they had decayed just as much as Revan had risen.

And it was these repudiated ones that the Republic, in all its hypocrisy, was turning to now, when Revan had emerged again... as its nemesis. The corruption was undeniable, the fall to the dark side there, as the Council had anticipated; even if certain bits still did not fall into place. The oddest thing was how all those Jedi that had initially followed Revan to war were also corrupted.

All except one, who had not followed after Malachor V, where she had been scarred deeply by her partaking of the events. Of the hundreds who had left with Revan, only she, one of the war's best and most reputed generals, had returned to the Council and received judgment. Another shake had been given to the already weakened Jedi Order at the sight of what Xalis Drent had become. They hadn't even tried to understand why she had returned, when she still believed in her initial cause so strongly; and they had exiled her. She had left for an unknown destination.

Many had been strongly affected by this event and their beliefs had been put through hard trials at the sight of so much dedication to one's cause. Some of the Masters who had given the sentence, such as Vrook, professed the belief that Xalis would return to her former commander and serve again.

But the Exile was no longer at Revan's side now, in full Civil War. Many Jedi hid questions in their minds, afraid to speak and open wounds that had not healed yet. None of the Masters who had trained Revan were the same, though only one had been blamed for the fall, and nor were those who had exiled Xalis; they were changed, impacted deeply... sad and weary. A slight on what the Order had once been.

The Padawan was just one of the many Jedi who often reflected on all these events. Unable to ask his Master for guidance down this path, which would have only cast a shadow between them, Zeph felt lost and aimless. He could sit in the warehouse for hours, thinking but not concluding in any way; when he left, he was always just as troubled.

And Nar Shaddaa was not the best place to facilitate the discovery of peace even if the Jedi were here, like on so many other planets, to guide those who would seek their help. The galaxy's morale was low and they were needed everywhere, to teach and reassure those who had lost their balance.

As far as Zeph was concerned, he couldn't teach anyone anything. Most often, he felt like he was just following Master Valai Dral around for the show. The middle-aged Arkanian was focused and calm, despite all the hardships, and his sixteen-year-old Padawan would have liked to do the same.

But he couldn't.

Zeph agreed with the Jedi Council's every decision in relation with the wars, but he had leeched much of that confidence from his Master. He couldn't help but wonder how the latter maintained his balance, even though the one who had been _his_ Master some years before had left with Revan and now heeded to the dark side. Zeph would have been torn apart by such a situation, he had no doubt.

The Padawan sighed, realizing once more how young he was; no matter how much he learned, or how deep his connection with the Force became, he remained inexperienced.

"Probably enough 'meditation' for today," he told himself bitterly, as he began to stand.

He stared down at the trail he and the billowing folds of his robes had left in the thick layers of dust on the floor. There were still older ones visible to the sides, also made by him, in the past few days. Judging by what little light managed to make its way into the warehouse, it was getting late. He eyed the ventilation system.

"Yeah," the Padawan sighed deeply yet again. "Time to go."

* * *

Vaguely, after a while and a few deep breaths taken in the cold air, charged with sounds and scents, Kim realized she was holding something in her right hand. And it wasn't any of her two blasters – those were hanging loosely on her hips and swaying with her every move. It wasn't a grenade either; or anything practical. 

It was a glass, which she really didn't recall taking from the cantina, filled with some Vasarian brandy. She threw it away and was only barely conscious of the crash it made against the permacrete platform.

"Well'at's odd," she slurred, while stumbling around in a way that wasn't much appreciated by the closest passer-by, who gave her a frustrated glare. "I can shtill recognize drinksh, though I've had at least ten different kindsh!"

She would have trotted away, bumping into some trouble in the process, had someone not grabbed her arm and held her steady.

"Are you feeling well?" asked a kind male voice, as the figure's other hand waved in front of her once, briefly.

Suddenly, after one more blink of her eyes, all the drowsiness seemed to flee with incredible ease; she could now see clearly. The man who had intercepted her let go.

"It's none of your damn business," she snapped, glaring.

He was tall and average, with a face she would undoubtedly not remember once she was back in the crowd, chasing someone in particular. Kim could very well memorize features, when it mattered; and now it didn't. What she would remember, though, was the invisible aura that seemed to surround this man, like a glow at the edge of sight, an ease of the mind perceivable in his every gesture.

"Take this," he insisted gently, taking her hand and slipping her a small object.

With a slight smile, he nodded his farewell and the next moment he was on his way. The woman's eyes dropped to his belt as he passed and she could see his lightsaber hanging there publicly. She raised her hand and stared at the datapad she was now holding.

Finding the nearest information terminal wasn't that difficult; actually getting it to accept the foreign datapad and display its contents was more of a hassle. Finally, with a few spikes placed strategically, she managed to obtain that effect as well.

"Oh, lucky you, Kim, look!" she muttered to herself in a highly sarcastic fashion, then began to quote the display's title. "_The Force's Unifying Role in the Galaxy._" She shook her head, pulling the datapad free again. "Right; like I need this crap..."

Luckily, one of the vehicles that floated about, collecting regular trash-stuffs, was stationing there at the moment, so on her way she threw the datapad at its wide-open mouth, not caring much if it actually hit target or not. Already, her head was beginning to pound – the last ameliorating effects of alcohol were wearing off and an infernal migraine would undoubtedly follow.

"He could have at least soothed this..." she continued to mutter, walking away slowly, with no real purpose.

* * *

When Zeph finally emerged from the ventilation system and set foot on one of Nar Shaddaa's many platforms, he was sure his hair looked deplorably messy. He sought to comb it back with his fingers, but the rebellious strands, of a dark, chocolaty brown, only fell into his face again as soon as they were released. He shrugged tiredly, dusted off and rearranged his robes, smoothing them as best he could, then looked around. 

A garbage collector appeared to be stuck on the platform's other side, as the result of either a malfunction, or some accident. He looked at it just in time to see a woman, who looked pretty inebriated or otherwise disconnected from reality, throw a datapad in there. Since he needed to go that way, the Padawan began to approach, while the woman turned back and headed for the direction he was coming from.

"Stupid Jedi and their crap..." he heard her mutter as she passed by him.

The remark was enough to make Zeph stop and wonder what all this was about. He thought of the datapad and what it might have contained. He knew that the Jedi he had come here with occasionally distributed small articles about the Force and the Order, mainly to let the confused and scared people know that they were there, still protecting them. Maybe the woman would regret throwing it away later, when she was sober again. On the other hand, maybe not. But... it was always a lot better to discover you had something useless than to realize you had disposed of something you needed.

With that reasoning, Zeph concentrated on the garbage collector, delving deep into the Force and allowing it to enhance his senses and knowledge of what was around. He probed, mentally, for the estranged datapad, and it was only a matter of a short flash before he found it. Lightly, a simple fluid gesture of his guided it out of there and toward the woman who had walked away.

With one last mental effort of concentration, Zeph allowed the object to slip inside the pocket on the back of her pants. Then, satisfied with his good intentions and with what he had done, he resumed his own way, back toward the complex where he, his Master and other Jedi had rented rooms.


	2. Not As Intended

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Not As Intended**

Nar Shaddaa had, as Zeph's Master had shown the young Padawan, a life of its own, a pulse that was actively perceivable through the Force, like an incessant whisper in the background, telling thousands of stories at once. Coming from Coruscant, Zeph was used to the network of reports, to the rumor and agitation, to the flux of mixed emotions and thoughts coming from everywhere and assaulting his young, open mind. But this was different; the Smuggler's Moon belonged explicitly to two categories – those who were hiding and those who tried to find. Coruscant's trait was organized variety; Nar Shaddaa's was purpose.

Invariably, he made that same realization each time he walked the platforms, separated from a fall into what looked like the endless void by only an ensemble of durasteel bars, too thin to actually look like an obstacle. Somehow, it felt as if the whispers came from down there and spiraled upwards, into the distant sky above the tops. It would have been no wonder if most of what he perceived really did come from there; basic instincts and primitive impulses, like those of the savage descendants of the Evocii, who lived down below, were far easier to detect than the intricate thought patterns of a more complex being.

It was all that which prevented the young Padawan from realizing that someone else was tracking his own steps, following him. Among so many searches, he did not distinguish the one that had him as its target. Not until he was grabbed by the shoulder and brutally turned around to face a Devaronian, who looked none too friendly. By the aggressive behavior and the brown-and-white calico fur, he guessed it was a female. Luckily, the Padawan, on his way to become a Jedi Consular and thus required to know many languages, could understand her.

"Jedi," the Devaronian hissed harshly. "Why did you give the datapad to the huntress?"

"Huntress?" Zeph questioned amiably, while subtly trying to shake the alien's clawed hand off.

"The Mandalorian woman," answered the female Devaronian, refusing to let go. "She goes by the fake name 'Acid Rain'; she hunts for credits."

_She was... a bounty huntress?_ Zeph thought to himself. He could barely believe that the chaotic woman whose datapad he had returned was the same as this 'Acid Rain'.

"There must be a mistake," he said politely.

"It is no mistake," the Devaronian pressed on. "What I saw was clear, and by now my employers know also." She raised her other hand, flashing a communicator in front of Zeph's eyes, to prove her claim.

"Look," Zeph tried to buy time, as his mind worked assiduously. "The datapad was given to her by the Jedi. I fail to see how--"

A more violent snarl from a Devaronian whose patience was closing in to a limit interrupted him. "Wrong datapad, human," she warned. "That one missed the trash collector and fell below."

"Uhh..." the Padawan acted innocent and helpful, trying to smile apologetically. "I'm guessing I gave her something yours then. I can, perhaps, help you recover it?"

"No," the alien shook her head. "The Hutts don't like you knowing of their deal with the Exchange. You and the female must die."

_Not very brilliant, are you?_ Zeph thought with a mental sigh. _I_ didn't_ know about it until you _told _me._

"Wait!" he said loudly, as he was already calling upon the Force and raising a hand; he waved it in front of the Devaronian, concentrating as hard as he could. "You will let me go."

"I will let you go," the Devaronian responded mechanically and did just that, as her eyes widened a little and seemed to lose their focus.

"You have never seen me, nor talked to me," Zeph continued.

"I have never seen you, nor talked to you," the alien repeated faithfully.

"Good evening," the Padawan wished her, bowing a little, before he hurried to put some distance between them.

The scene had taken place only a few steps away from the apartment complex's entrance and Zeph was quick to slip inside before anything else happened and he actually had to hurt somebody. Not that he hadn't already done so indirectly and unintentionally; the bounty huntress was probably in a lot of trouble by then. Of course, helping her would be quite out of his league. With that thought haunting him, Zeph knocked on one of the doors; answering a command from the inside, it glided open and the Padawan could enter.

He found his master, a middle-aged Arkanian by the name of Valai Dral, sitting on the floor, legs crossed and eyes closed. "Where have you been?" the motionless serene figure asked gently.

"I've... walked," the Padawan answered, instantly lowering a loaded gaze to the floor.

"I see," the Master mused, opening his eyes to look at his student. "As usual."

"Actually?" Zeph began guiltily. "... I've caused some trouble."

Master Dral didn't even seem to process that last sentence for a while, still refusing to move. He didn't scowl or frown, as the Padawan had expected, nor did he have any harsh words. Finally, he gestured for his student to sit down, and so Zeph complied. It looked like his usual obedient attitude and tendency to stay in the background, obscure and unknown by any, had saved the young Jedi from a reprimand. Or maybe his Master had seen he felt guilty enough by himself already.

As usual, he found that the more experienced Jedi had a sympathetic ear ready for him, while the story of how things had gone by unfolded. When Zeph finished, the both of them stood, and the Master summoned his deactivated lightsaber through the Force, from the nearby desk.

"Come," the Arkanian called gently to his student. "We should help her."

There were no words to describe how grateful and relieved the Padawan felt upon hearing that. He followed his Master, wondering why he had questioned his patience and good will in the first place. Jedi weren't like that...

* * *

By the time Kim's growing headache became quite unbearable, she had nearly reached the recluse platform where her ship, a rather old and battered thing she had bought off a retired Republic veteran, was docked. Its name was _Jealousy_, but the identity of its first owner, who was responsible for that, had been lost over time. Though old and cranky, the ship could still hold through a few simple battles, should that need have arisen. 

_Jealousy_ was a light freighter, arranged in a three-pronged shape in such a way that it pretty much resembled the letter M; that was why many called such ships M-wings. The prong at the top was the one holding the bridge, while the other two below it could easily hold cargo or passengers; not that Kim had any, unless she needed to deliver somebody alive. Its only weapons were two pairs of turbolasers, but _Jealousy_'s were in such poor condition that only one of four turrets functioned correctly, while the others risked to overload and suffer a most undesirable fate, such as an explosion. The bounty huntress had at least made sure the vessel's shields were up and working right.

Kim was a decent pilot and, with the help of 3C-NV, her little astromech droid, she could calculate and set enough courses to get her, mostly, to any part of the galaxy. And being what she was had its clear advantages – it was for the benefit of all if no one shot her down and she was allowed to continue her work. Not that someone as generally level-headed and cautious as Kim would have given anyone dangerous a reason to shoot at her. She wasn't a very considerate and social woman, but she knew when it was better to play tactfully.

But, despite her various accomplishments, the bounty huntress deeply loathed what her life had become. Her people had suffered a defeat recent enough to still mark them with its irremovable stain and she, one of the few Mandalorian remnants, had suddenly found herself homeless and without a social status that mattered. She had been obligated to learn the rules of another society and to strip herself of all that defined her people, of everything that was the Mandalorian conduct, for the sake of survival. And as if those reasons weren't enough for her to dislike Jedi, fate had brought her together with a freighter named in such a way that it would constantly symbolize how jealous she was of their power.

"If they thought I'd eat up the religious nonsense on their datapad..." the woman muttered some more, when she recalled that incident.

Mentioning it seemed to be an ill omen, for the exact moment she did so she took a wrong step that twisted her ankle for a moment. The awkward move required to reinstate her balance was enough for her to realize that something was in her back pocket. She reached behind and pulled it out, only to be surprised at the sight of a datapad.

"Hey!" she exclaimed rhetorically, expressing frustration. "I'm _positive_ that I threw you away..." She squinted, in order to see a few details about its make, and then realized. "Wait; this is another datapad, belonging to--"

"--the Exchange."

Life could be so funny sometimes; nothing happened when you were bored, then, at the worst possible time, when an occurrence swept you off your feet, everything else came to pile on top of it.

Kim didn't need to be a genius to realize that the orange-skinned Twi'lek female she saw standing there when she turned around had been the one to complete her spoken phrase. The two knew each other vaguely, as their goals occasionally coincided and they clashed in a competition that would prove which of them were better. Of course, the Twi'lek was no declared bounty huntress, like Kim, but the Exchange used its mercenaries on multiple fronts.

"Velsa Daral," Kim identified her calmly, doing her best to act like she and the Twi'lek were equals. At the moment, of course, they were not, the latter aiming a blaster at Kim, and the bounty huntress felt as if every single bone in her body had been recently broken anyway.

"Really, Kim," the Twi'lek mocked her. "Shooting you will be the best thing I've done in over a year." She took her time, to aim the shot accurately, seeming not to have decided on whether it would be the head, the chest or stomach that received it.

"That's really sad..." Kim remarked, trying to at least die proudly, or something of the kind. She didn't really care in her current state of mind.

She waited for a shot that never came.


End file.
